


The day: Sunny

by NY_shi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, M is for multiple occasions of swearing, M/M, and mentions of sex, not beta read we die like men, they are going to be fine because i love them so so so so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NY_shi/pseuds/NY_shi
Summary: In which Ivan and Alfred are in a complicated relationship. Comes with a little, little slice of fruk on the side, take it and run, y'all.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia), RusAme - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	The day: Sunny

The day: Sunny.

The reason: America.

The reality:

Russia takes a look outside. There was nothing but the usual blur of white. But it was really warm right now.

"Yo! Ivan! Where'd you keep the burgers!" 

America was in the kitchen, from where sounds of drawers and cupboards slamming could be heard. He had snuck in through a half-opened window like a professional burglar, surprisingly agile in his movements as he took advantage of the opening to slip through. Russia was in the living room, getting ready to leave, and from where he stood he could see as clear as day, though not hear, America landing on the light blue tiles of his kitchen, matching America's wide, sheepish eyes when he found out he'd been caught so soon. But of course he made himself at home immediately, taking the liberty of scouring Russia's kitchen for non-existent "burgers". 

Burgers were America's favorite food, but also his favorite excuse, as it turned out, this was far from the first time.

In his mind, Russia swiftly cancelled any plans of leaving his house until America had been taken care of. Which he knew would take a rather long time, whether he liked it or not. There was this blank void left but it did not take long for him to recall the bright, shiny blue of his eyes, or the gleam of his perfect smile, of course, never once at him.

Whenever America came over unannounced, the weather changed. It was the only time it was warm and balmy in Russia's house, and he would always reserve a special kind of resentment toward America for that, but this was more on him. He was affected by the deceptively cordial nature of his rival country, and it was all his fault. He was never in the popular business of taking sides, however clandestine it may have been, but he was inexplicably drawn to America in ways he could not even begin to fathom, as if the universe was hell-bent on ensnaring them both in a decidedly mutual attraction, all while their people waged bloody wars. 

Russia was corrupted.

No, not like before, when he was a child carrying out senseless violence, or when he got his worst scars that would never heal. His hands were full of blood that dripped down to stain his boots and the snow; he had his fair share of revolutions. This was not about the abandoned nation walking all alone through a snowstorm, it was when he met Alfred, who later gave him the most beautiful flower he'd ever seen, and walked him through a field of them and the next thing he knew they were pointing guns at each other's faces. He didn't want to be abandoned again.

Russia was in that sense, pathetic.

America was less than subtle about their dubious affairs. He would cast lustful glances across the table at Russia during meetings while taking a massive bite of his burger, and it always succeeded in making Russia's guts twist in a positively sick desire for the other nation. Other times it would manifest as a sly wink in the middle of a heated discussion that effectively silenced the whole room within seconds, or the cockiest curl of his lips to reveal sharp canines in between Germany's long speeches, where all of Russia's drifting attention came slamming back into him in a split second, adrenaline gushing through his veins at light speed. He then coughed, and Germany would push his glasses higher up his nose to offer him a pointed stare. And then quietly, America would snicker.

The other Nations sometimes pretended to be a little more unaware, dismissive, but Russia once caught the sideway glances of England and France, and had a sinking sort of realisation that the others had caught more than wind of their untimely "hook-up sessions".

The truth remained that he felt really… _really_ warm. And it was nice, and it was a pleasure— _his_ pleasure—and Russia knew he would be damned if he allowed himself to be weak to something as temporary as this. Too bad, Russia loved this feeling. He still saw the sunflowers in his dreams. He wanted it to last. And so America would get away with anything.

"I don't remember inviting you over…" He paused. Should he say it? Should he not say it? He wanted to say it. That desperation worked itself out of his gullet and rolled all too easily off his tongue.

"...Alfred."

America promptly shut the cupboard he opened just seconds ago and slid smoothly off the countertop to look the taller male in the eye.

Russia stood in the entrance of the kitchen, broad of shoulder and white of hair, scars kept away from prying eyes by his scarf and black long sleeves. But America knew where to look, knew Russia like no one else knew him. America thought he was quite a sight to behold. He had missed it. 

The young nation had many places to be and many more places he _could_ be, for example, he could be sprawled across one of the beaches in California, half-buried in the golden sand and then washing it all off in the sea, and only then remembering that sunscreen existed. Or he could try out that thing where he walked in on England and France without knocking so he can watch Arthur kick Francis halfway across the room—

Instead he stood before Russia, showing off his cocky smile as he admired the light violet of his eyes. He remembered the time he saw Ivan cry—how those eyes sparkled like the rarest amethyst gems.

"I can come over anytime I please." America shrugged, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. "As long as I don't tell." He looked around the kitchen as if he was seeing it for the first time. "Maan your place is _cold_."

Russia stares at America for a while more, his brain digging for any ulterior motive he might have for visiting him. He was informally dressed, same old bomber jacket and a white shirt under that, maybe a little too tight. But this was an "unofficial" visit…so it made sense. Then how would he explain away America's smile? Or the warmth that seeped quietly into his veins, and he could actually feel his heart beat. 

He walked toward where the blond nation stood and reached past him. He offered the same reply as he had all those times. "There aren't any burgers but—"

America was most unpredictable. He was a 'human' time bomb, extremely volatile and handle-with-caution type, ticking away to the random-est timer, ready to blow up in your face at any point in time. Granted, Russia already knew that. But all the wisdom and cunning in the world could never have prepared him for the searing heat of America's fingers laced between his own.

America grinned.

Russia jerked back. He flinched, an honest-to-God recoil of his whole body such that his hipbone collided with the counter behind him in the most painfully embarrassing way, as if he had just touched the hottest part of a burning flame, rather than the calloused skin of an over-achieving adolescent. 

Despite that, America held him tight. They both knew the underlying cause, an overlooked detail on Russia's part and a carefully concealed element of surprise kept in America's jean pockets—he was without his usual leather gloves. Really, it was such a small thing, like that little corner of your shelf you forgot to dust, and the slight raise of a golden eyebrow over bright blue eyes.

Russia could guess where they were going.

The shorter nation turned on him, pushing him flush against the counter. Russia recognised the glint in America's sky-blue eyes. Too late.

America had him pinned securely in place, pushing the back of Russia's hand—he could feel his knuckles bruising—into the hardness of the countertop, while his other hand yanked Russia down by his scarf. 

America kissed him.

Like always.

Rude, Russia thought, eyes half-lidded, lips numbly yielding to America's whims, while his hands braced uncomfortably against the counter as he was forced down by his scarf, Alfred was openly staring at him through the kiss. Russia wondered if this outright display of insincerity was done on purpose. Somehow he couldn't bear to look away.

Russia did not know what made America pull away, satisfied, a thin trail of saliva still connecting their wet, parted lips. America released him, stepping back to admire his part-time lover, whom he had just skilfully ruined. He had chipped away at his walls, taken him apart then pieced him back together artfully, a vivid oil painting where there was once only frozen plains.

The pale skin of Russia's face was a blushing red. He was giddy and out of breath, but more importantly he could feel beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, matting his short bangs when he swiped at it with the back of his hand.

The America who would deign to kiss Russia was pure-hearted and cheerful, a far cry from his sneering, calculative counterpart. This was the Alfred young Ivan would confidently say he fell in love with seconds after he first saw him. If Ivan thought his feelings withered to dust after Alfred changed he was terribly wrong. Russia would know that smile anywhere, at any time. He would recall every last detail of the way his eyes seemed to hold all of the universe's blue skies in them. And he would talk for hours on end about his laugh—the angelic quality of Alfred F. Jones' genuine laugh never changed, not once, not even after all those years and all those battles. And how it clawed at and gripped the heart Ivan didn't know he had, and forced helpless tears from his icy soul. How he only ever cried for Alfred.

"He-ey, Ivan." Alfred whispered. He pressed his lips to the cool base of Russia's jaw.

Ivan shuddered.

_Blyat._

It was July the third. He knows what America wanted him to say. He risks a glance at him. "Happy Birthday, Alfred."

"That's my ulterior motive, you know."

"I know."

Russia cradled America's jaw in his hands, sliding his tongue against his and then gasping as America rolled his hips and wound an arm around Russia's shoulder while his other hand slipped under his scarf to trace along the scarred flesh underneath.

They longed deeply for each other, and they would wait too long to admit this simple truth, to confess without seeking any explanation, as would a devout Catholic confess all their sins and their many transgressions to their one true God, and in return be forgiven. But the sins of Russia and America ran far deeper than any mortal, their intentions tarnished by hate and fear and prejudice and the useless, _fucking_ pride which they wear like a mask to look down on each other, to shame each other, and to trample blindly on the very fabrics of their identities. They were vastly different, true, and physically distant, no one could deny that, but in the wise words of Arthur, "You're a twat!", and those of Francis, "No, I'm afraid you are, _mon cher_.", they are all but idiots in the polished, bitchface of reality, and are forgiven all the same. 

See, how little it mattered who was the bigger idiot, or who lost more, or who was crazier—Russia was—or who was more in love with who.

Russia pulled away slightly.

"Я тебя люблю."

"You know I don't speak Russian." 

"Mhm." Russia hums.

"Luckily I predicted you might pull something like that on my birthday—"

"The day before your birthday." Russia corrected.

America ignored that. "—So I had Google Translate on speech-to-text mode. _All_ day." He waved his phone at Russia smugly. "Now let's see…"

"Wait!"

America paused, smiling coyly. "Yes? Getting competitive all of a sudden?"

Now that kind of pissed Russia off.

He swiped at the phone and hit backspace, then dropped the device onto the counter with a clatter.

"WHAT THE FUCK—"

Russia was already leaving. He did not want to see America's face when he was angry. 

But of course things could never have ended that easily. 

America grabbed Russia and punched him in the face, and Russia, of course, spat out a mouthful of blood, and promptly returned the favor.

"Son of a bitch!" America's cheekbone slammed into the wall.

"COWARD." Russia grunted as America kicked him hard in the ribs.

And they went back and forth like that, exchanging blows, and cursing each other out, getting their knuckles bloodier by the second—

And that was when the back of Russia's head collided with the sharp edge of a desk. Things took a turn for the worst of the worst. There was a lot of blood, like a mini fountain of blood just going all over the place and Russia could feel it. He thinks it's okay, he just needed to hit back harder next time, but his body is going slack, and his vision is swimming. He can't get a word out but America seems to be shouting his name, "IVAN! IVAN!", and shaking him. According to his face it was not a good idea: his eyes were blue as always but wide with raw panic, and it was very quiet now, and Russia finds himself regretting all of it. America is pulling back his hands and they are so, so, so **red** , his blood is spilling through the gaps between his fingers, and his hands were visibly shaking. He was probably crying, and thank god he couldn't hear a thing, he just wants it to be over; he wants Alfred to please leave, but America now looks horrified, and Russia thinks that is such a bad look on him and he hates it with a passion, and unfortunately it's the last thing he will see because his eyes are closing against his will and the world is pitch-black and he regrets everything like crazy.

…

Russia opens his eyes slowly. He was on his bed. He was not spewing blood like a mini fountain.

America was beside him, holding his hand to his forehead with both hands. 

"You look awful. Alfred."

It turned out America was not asleep, and he did look awful, his face was bruised and he had cuts all over, and his eyes were all red and puffy, and his glasses were cracked at one side—Still America manages to smile. "You should've seen the other guy."

And Russia gets it. He laughs, but his brain throbbed like hell, so his laugh quickly morphs into a groan and America hushes him, and strokes his hair back.

Russia catches his wrist. "Alfred, I—"

"Shh, don't talk. Just listen." America cuts him off. "Sorry. I love you."

Russia blinks rapidly. "What?"

"Yeah, I am. Ivan, it's getting late. I have to go now."

"Wait, is this a dream? Don't go!" Russia's head was spinning. He was worried that it was all an elaborate side-effect of a concussion—That it would just be a dream his dying brain cooked up, where Alfred finally says what he always wanted him to say for the longest time…He was losing consciousness again. When he wakes up again Alfred will be gone, probably celebrating his birthday with a huge party, and he will be perfectly fine, because he was a Nation…What if he wakes up again and doesn't remember anything?

He tries to find America's hand.

"Alfred, Alfredalfredalfred _alfred—_ "

…

Russia was unravelling the bandages around his head. Whoever did that was no medical expert. It was a mess, honestly, but he was fine now, and nothing hurt. Well maybe his chest did feel a little uncomfortable, but he could live with it.

He stares at the mirror. Something felt off. Well, it didn't really matter. He had worse injuries before, and yet here he was. Russia never loved himself, but...But what, exactly? 

Maybe his mental issues were getting the better of him.

He stepped out of the bathroom and tossed the pile of bloody bandages into the trash. He went to pick up his phone from his desk when he saw the corner of his desk, or lack thereof, it had been filed down to a smooth curve.

His day was getting weirder and weirder.

He clicked on his phone to see the voice recording app open. There was one file saved, from last night. It was six minutes and two seconds long.

Russia had no idea what happened and decided it was worth a listen so he played it.

There was six whole minutes of silence, and then a voice saying, "Sorry, I love you."

Russia froze.

He turned up the volume and hit play again. He waited six minutes for Alfred to say, "Sorry, I love you." in a slightly louder voice.

Russia recalled their fights, all their fights. And the bloodshed, and the years of hatred and petty rivalry—He remembered their first kiss in the field of sunflowers, and the first time they made love: When the Cuban Missile Crisis ended and the world was not going to be destroyed by nukes after all, and they just got a room, locked the door, and did it over a desk—whoever it belonged to was sufficiently prepared.

And then of course, the confessing. Which hadn't gone well for either of them, at all.

Much much later that day, America dropped by again. Said he managed to slip away from his own party. Russia was waiting for him this time. And they talked, and America insisted on checking his head again—there was a faint scar, but otherwise completely healed. And then they talked some more, even though it was already dark out, and maybe made out a couple times in between, and then they were on Russia's couch, America's head in his lap, and they were both tired, but they didn't want the day to end just yet, so they kept on talking, just random moments that came to mind.

"If you didn't have burgers—what were you going to offer me anyway?" America asks, sleepily rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

Russia shrugged.

"Vodka?"

And America laughed. Russia could feel it in his very bones, hear it ring in his ears, and he's so goddamn **happy**. Then America is saying, "That's actually a great idea…" And he goes and falls asleep straight after, like a kid, right in Russia's lap, and Russia helps him take off his glasses, and wraps the blanket around his shoulders.

Russia tells him, "Good night.", and "I love you, Alfred.".

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I _really _need to recommend a song before I go so:__
> 
> _sometimes -Chelsea Cutler_  
> 


End file.
